


Haunting

by jujus_writing_corner



Series: Whumptober 2019 [22]
Category: Real Person Fiction, Youtube RPF
Genre: Blood, Body Horror, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Disfigurement, Fever, Gen, Gore, Hallucinations, Heavy Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 10:14:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21135062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jujus_writing_corner/pseuds/jujus_writing_corner
Summary: Dr. Iplier comes down with a horrible fever and starts seeing patients he wasn't able to save.Whumptober Day 22: Hallucination





	Haunting

**Author's Note:**

> Idek, man. I went way too ham on this one. Heed the warnings, this is ROUGH.
> 
> Enjoy? ;w;

The fever catches Dr. Iplier by surprise, though it probably shouldn’t have. He’s been running on empty for too long, overworking himself so much that his body is taking drastic measures to get him to stop. Now, Dr. Iplier is stuck in bed, temperature climbing, as The Host watches over him and tries to keep him cool – and Yandereplier hovers nearby, worried and unsure. The pair are trying to decide when they ought to bring Plus in to help out, and if there’s anything he can do that Host and Yandere can’t do already.

Dr. Iplier, though, isn’t aware of any of this. He feels like the fever is cooking him, overheating him from the brain out. It’s hotter than hellfire, and hell is where his mind decides he must be. Everything is dark, shrouded, indistinct, but there’s people appearing before him, familiar people. People who he shouldn’t be seeing, people who died a long time ago.

Patients, of all ages, surrounding him. Everywhere Dr. Iplier looks, there’s someone he failed. Elderly people who died in their sleep, in their beds at the clinic. Little children who choked on strawberries or had allergic reactions. Accident victims who came to Dr. Iplier mangled, already halfway to the grave. People murdered, shot or stabbed or drowned or even set ablaze before their time. Overdoses, unintentional or not. People whose times of death were already written in immovable red when they arrived, and died accordingly. People who might have lived, who almost lived, if not for bad luck, complications, misdiagnoses, _mistakes_ that Dr. Iplier made. He doesn’t make them often, but he does, and they’re here, they’re all here, moaning and wailing and cursing him for failing them.

“I miss Mommy and Daddy,” cries a little boy, face swollen and red with anaphylaxis.

“I just wanted a fix, I wasn’t supposed to die,” yells a pale, convulsing man with bulging eyes and needle marks up his arms.

“I can’t leave my dad, I’m all he has,” gasps a teenage girl pulled from a car wreck, with brown hair and barely any face left to talk with.

“My poor wife, what’ll she do without me?” asks an old man, with purple-smudged eyes and two brain aneurysms that can’t be seen from the outside.

But Dr. Iplier knows they’re there. He remembers. He remembers every single patient, every single sobbing relative, every single flatlined monitor and clouded pair of eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he wails, “I tried, I tried, I didn’t want you to die either, I’m sorry!”

(“Dad, hey, it’s okay! What are you talking about!?”

“He’s hallucinating from the fever. He may not be aware of us right now.”)

The visions get worse, the people crowd around, they wail and scream to match Dr. Iplier’s volume. Wherever Dr. Iplier turns, there’s another accusing glare.

“I was having a heart attack and you couldn’t see it,” sobs a middle-aged woman, as pale as the corpse she became.

“You should’ve waited longer to discharge me,” groans a man, bones cracked and head dented after his still-bad hip gave him a fall down the stairs.

“I didn’t mean to,” cries a little girl, one eye and half her brain blown away from the pistol she wasn’t supposed to have access to.

“I thought I wanted to die, but you shouldn’t have let me,” says a teenage boy, monotone and sad, neck stretched too long and feet swollen with pooled blood.

“I know, I know, I know,” Dr. Iplier sobs, “I failed, I should’ve been better, I’m sorry!”

(“Shhh, shhh, darling, you’re alright, you’re safe.”

“Should we get Midori-kun?”

“The Host isn’t sure. Dr. Iplier’s hallucinations won’t go away instantly, even with fever reducers. It might be best to wait it out. Dr. Iplier has done as much with the two of us before.”)

If it were only this, it would be terrible but not unbearable. If it were only human patients glaring and screaming at him, only pairs and pairs of human hands grabbing his hair, arms, legs, trying to pull him down into hell with them, trying to draw him further into the fire, then Dr. Iplier might still have enough awareness to know that what he’s seeing isn’t real. But it isn’t just human patients.

It’s egos, too. Every single one of the many, many egos that faded away and died, forgotten by the fans, but never by Dr. Iplier. Never by Dr. Iplier, who sat by them and tried to make them comfortable until their inevitable end. Who could do nothing at all but sit with them and wait for them to die. They’re here, they crowd around like the humans did, but their faces and voices are familiar, their glares and wails and accusations hurt so much more.

“I was meant to make masterpieces,” laments Artiplier in his thick French accent, crying so hard he’s nearly incomprehensible. “Didn’t you tell me I could do great things? But it was lies, you lied, _menteur, menteur._” His white shirt is now stained a multitude of colors as rainbows flow from gashes and lines across his body. He never looked like that when he was alive, he was never hurt so badly, but the fever heat of Dr. Iplier’s mind makes it so.

“I didn’t, I didn’t mean…” Dr. Iplier gasps.

“You never gave _me_ hope,” mutters the deep, droning tone of Goopiplier, his once-white ectoplasm now red and brown with blood, holes and cracking dry skin peeking through gaps in the sludge. “You always knew I was going to die. You didn’t give me any reason to hold on.”

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Iplier whimpers, “Your time was red, I couldn’t–”

“I was so happy, and just like that it was gone,” Walter Melone Warfstache moans, purple moustache dripping purple blood that runs from his nose, eyes, ears. “Did Wilford forget me, too?”

“I don’t know,” Dr. Iplier whispers, unable to speak louder, “I don’t know.”

“What about _my_ brother?” cries the tinny, high-pitched voice of Mini Bing. He stands on exposed joints, his chest is missing metal plates, still-sparking wires poke out of his arms. His sunglasses are shattered, and one eye hangs loose, attached by a thread of optic wire that threatens to snap at any moment. His other eye leaks tears to mix with the oil flowing like blood. “Why did I die so fast? There was so much we were supposed to do together!”

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t, I couldn’t–” sobs Dr. Iplier.

“At least you both _knew_ your brothers,” wails Weatherman Jim, his movements hampered by the mangled mess of ripped flesh and bone shards that is the entire left side of his body.

“We wanted to, we wanted to,” cries Newscaster Jim, his right side just as ruined and bloody, trying to hold Weather Jim close with his one good arm. “If you’d just kept us alive for a few more weeks, we could’ve!”

“There was nothing I could do!” Dr. Iplier screams.

“What kind of doctor are you!?” sneers the gruff, angry voice of the latest ego lost, Derek Derekson. He’s bruised so bad the skin is broken, blood is so thick in his mouth he’s hard to understand, both his glaring eyes are blackened and swollen. “You of all people ought to know that a son needs his father, and now mine’s alone because of you!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!!” Dr. Iplier howls.

And he is, he is sorry. Derek was nearly as cruel as Dark and as callous as Wilford but he was still one of them, still an ego, still one of the many people that were supposed to call Ego Inc. home but never had long enough to do it. More and more egos, crowding, haunting with their familiarity, horrifying with their bodies; unbroken in life but somehow mangled in death. Dr. Iplier struggles against pairs of hands, dozens, hundreds, egos and humans both, trying to drag him under as he kicks and screams.

(“Dad, hey, calm down! Katarite-san, he’s getting worse!!”

“It’s time to get Plus. Go, The Host will stay with Dr. Iplier.”

“I’ll be right back, Dad, I love you.”

“Edward, can you hear me at all?”)

A new face appears before Dr. Iplier, one he’d never wanted to see again. He moans with terror, tears pouring as he stares into the gaping eye sockets of The Author. His signature shark-fin hair is flat and matted with blood, blood that waterfalls from his empty eye sockets, rustling the strips of dead tissue hanging over the edges and down his cheeks. All the skin without blood soaking it is bluish-white, nearly gray in places, the color and texture of a corpse. His hands are bloody as they reach out and cup Dr. Iplier’s cheeks, his teeth are bloody as he opens his mouth to speak.

“You left me,” he moans, yet in that sharp, clear tone that Dr. Iplier fell for, “You turned your back on me and left me vulnerable. I died because you gave up on me when I wanted to fix things.” His fingers creep across Dr. Iplier’s cheeks, catching tears, but the touch has no comfort in it. “You gave Dark an opening and he took it. And you lost me forever. The Host has my body and my memory, but he is not me. I’m gone. I’m gone. You let me go. You let me die.” His grip on Dr. Iplier tightens, nails digging into his head, like he means to wrench it around and snap his neck. “Do you ever miss me, Edward?” he snarls, “Do you remember what we had? Do you think about me when you let him fuck you like I used to? Does he taste like me? You moved on with him so nicely, you keep telling him you love him how he is now. Do you care at all for what you lost? Did you ever love me at all?”

“Isaac, let me go! I’m sorry, please, I love you, I love you, let me go!” Dr. Iplier wails, fighting The Author’s hands.

(“My love, I know what you’re seeing, and it’s not real! It’s alright, Edward, you’re safe, I promise you’re safe, please hear me!”

“Katarite-san, I brought Midori-kun!”

“Host, what was his temperature when you last checked?”

“Dad, Dad, you’re gonna be okay, can you hear me??”)

Finally, finally, The Author’s hands tear away from Dr. Iplier, but he can still feel the man’s blood on his cheeks, and he sobs, sobs…until a new voice, singsong and high-pitched, floats in from somewhere unidentifiable.

“_Kagome, kagome, kago no naka no tori wa…”_

“What–” Dr. Iplier gasps.

_“Itsu, itsu deyaru, yoake no ban ni…”_

“No, no, you’re not, you’re not–” Dr. Iplier sobs.

_“Tsuru to kame ga subetta,”_ Yandere sings as he finally comes into view, _“Ushiro no shoumen dare?”_

_“How!?”_ Dr. Iplier screams. “I didn’t, you didn’t–” His own tears cut him off.

Yandere stands before him with every injury he’s ever had in his skin, in his bones. His head is caved in, his jaw is cracked and hanging loose, one eye is sliced over and leaking like jelly out of the socket. His shirt is so torn to ribbons it doesn’t cover him at all, and Dr. Iplier can see his open ribcage, the bones bent away and snapped off, revealing his quiet heart and motionless lungs. The gash up his side that almost killed him is open again, and ropes of intestine spill out, flopping and twitching on the ground. Yandere holds one loop in his hand, twirling it absentmindedly, and his other hand is half-sliced off, a perfect diagonal across his fingers and through his palm. His arms are so cut up it’s hard to see the skin, his legs are crooked and bent in too many places.

“You’re right, I haven’t died,” Yandere says, words garbled from his shattered jaw. He smiles as well as he’s able, his tone is light and happy. “But I will. You haven’t failed me yet, but you will.” His good eye closes mirthfully; his bad eye shivers and rolls as it tries to copy the action. “One day you won’t get to me in time, or you’ll make a mistake, and I’ll die just like the rest of them.” He steps closer. “I almost did die, when I was a baby, do you remember? ‘Cause I do.” He reaches into his own chest with his bad hand, nudges his dead heart with the stumps of his fingers. “I remember how you didn’t even have the decency to tell me I was dying.”

“But you weren’t!!” Dr. Iplier insists.

“You thought I was, though, didn’t you?” Yandere asks. “You were so surprised when I survived. I could’ve faded away and you wouldn’t have ever let me know.” He drops the intestine in his hand and picks at the exposed tendons in his other hand instead, making his arm muscles twitch and jump. “Maybe you don’t care. Maybe you’d be happier if I was dead. Maybe that’s why you let me get hurt all the time.”

“Baby, baby, my baby, please,” Dr. Iplier bawls.

“One of these days I’ll die, Papa,” Yandere continues, still messing with his open fingers, “I’ll die horribly, I’ll bleed to death or get my head chopped off or get mangled in an accident, and it’ll be your fault. It’ll be your fault, because you’re my dad, and you’re supposed to protect me.” He reaches into his chest, squeezes his own heart until it squelches and pops under the strain. “You’ll fail me one day, Papa, you’ll fail me and I’ll hate you forever.”

“Please, no,” Dr. Iplier sobs, “Yan, I love you, I love you, please–”

(“I love you too, Papa, it’s okay, it’s okay!”

“I’ll give him an acetaminophen injection to reduce his fever. Host, help me keep him still.”

“Be careful, be careful!!”

“We’ll be very careful, Yandere. There’s no need to cry.”)

Too many hands, too many hands, pushing him down, pulling him under, deeper and deeper into that rising heat, the heat of blood and muscle, of bone marrow, of brain matter, of friction from cold hands scrabbling over each other to yank on Dr. Iplier’s hair and clothes, pulling, pulling, all the way down, into the hellfire, hotter and hotter and hotter –

(“The fever should start going down soon.”

“Is there any way he can be sedated?”

“No, it’s not safe right now. Maybe if his fever gets lower and he’s still hallucinating.”

“The Host…The Host understands.”

“You should both go and clear your heads. I can take care of him from here on out.”

“Wait, we can’t just leave him! W-We can’t–”

“Yandere, there’s nothing more we can do here. Our presence only made Dr. Iplier’s hallucinations worse, and we…we are in no condition to provide him comfort.”

“He’ll be alright, Yandere, I’ll make sure.”

“Come along, little one, The Host has s-some new books in the library he’d like to show you.”

“O-Okay…”)

Dr. Iplier, after what feels like years of heat and haze and moaning corpses, finally tires. His mind exhausts itself and Dr. Iplier finds himself dragged down a different way, not into hellish hands, but into dark and dreamless sleep. He welcomes it, welcomes anything to stop the onslaught of anguished spirits still clawing at his lab coat.

Finally, finally, he sleeps.

~~~

When Dr. Iplier wakes up, he’s still warm, but not sweltering like before. It’s still dark around him, but not foggy or strange. He looks around and sees nothing but the walls of his bedroom. There’s a weight in bed beside him, and he looks down to see Yandere, whole and unharmed, curled up and asleep, snuggled into his chest.

No spirits. No monsters. No dead. Just his bedroom, just night.

He sighs as he puts an arm around Yandere. Something nearby rustles and shifts, and Dr. Iplier looks away from Yandere to see The Host, rousing himself from sleep in the chair he’s sitting in. Perfectly normal Host, maybe a little bloodier than usual, but nothing out of the ordinary.

“Did I wake you?” Dr. Iplier asks, and realizes his voice is sore. Probably from his earlier screaming.

“Technically, yes,” Host admits. His voice is off, too. He probably cried earlier. “But I’m glad for it. I…” He pauses, unsure. “Are you alright?”

Dr. Iplier still remembers the hallucinations. He knows they weren’t real, but he can’t help but feel them all the same. He’ll probably remember them for a while. But Host is here, and he’s fine, and Yandere’s here, and he’s fine.

Dr. Iplier beckons Host closer, and Host leaves his chair to sit on the bed instead. But Dr. Iplier pulls him closer with the arm not around Yandere, and Host adjusts, laying next to him to hold him. The rustling and movement wakes Yandere, who clings to Dr. Iplier tighter.

“Are you okay, Papa?” he asks, voice small and eyes sparkling with tears. Dr. Iplier feels a pang of answering sympathy. He can only imagine how his own despair and terror looked from the outside, both to Yandere and Host. He kisses Yandere’s forehead softly and turns his head to kiss Host just as gently.

“I am now,” Dr. Iplier whispers, answering both his loved ones’ questions.

**Author's Note:**

> ;;;w;;; Doc bby I'm sorry
> 
> This fic is absolutely PACKED with references to older works of mine, some from this month, some older. If you can spot them all you get...a virtual cookie? That makes up for this horror show fic right? ;w;
> 
> Real talk though, I'm proud of this, and now that I've gotten it out of my system I'll hopefully not write anything so viscerally terrifying for a while. I mean, unless you want me to 👀


End file.
